


Me, Myself, and Him

by Adoxography



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Double Penetration, M/M, Mental Illness, Porn With Plot, Pseudo-Incest, Spoilers to the End of Season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-07-11 19:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15978629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adoxography/pseuds/Adoxography
Summary: After the events at the end of Season Three, Mr. Robot takes Elliot to the one place he might feel safe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. Violence tag for later chapters but all the sex tags are for this chapter for sure. As always, special thanks to Shell_and_Bone who makes these things readable and is my Evil Kermit who encourages me to write filth.

I look over my shoulder. I’ve done it six times in the last two blocks and still I’m not confidant I haven’t been followed. I might not even know who or what I’m looking for. I have my hoodie up to cover my face, but that won’t help me if they followed me from my apartment. Mr. Robot walks beside me, shoulders relaxed, a bland smile of satisfaction on his face. He doesn’t have to care what he looks like; I’m the only one who can see him, after all. 

On the subway I change trains three times on the same line, hopping on and off with no warning and hoping against hope they haven't guessed where I’m headed. I’m hoping they don’t know because I have nowhere else to go. Mr. Robot sits beside me on the subway and wraps his arm around my shoulders. The rattle and whine of the train is as familiar as the logo on his jacket, as familiar as the face he wears. I lean into him because I’m exhausted, because I’m scared, because despite everything I know, at the end of the day, he wants what’s best for me, what’s best for us. It’s why I’m trusting him now, even though I don’t trust our destination one bit. 

I just want to feel safe, even if only for a moment.

I stand outside the townhouse that costs more than I could ever hope to make legally and I’m frozen to the spot. The occupant and I did not part on the best of terms the last time I saw him, though Mr. Robot does not share my concern. 

“He’s already forgiven you,” he tells me. 

“How can you be so sure?” I ask. My hands are stuffed in my pockets so they don’t shake. The locks look sturdy at least. 

“Trust me,” Mr. Robot says. I want to, but given everything we’ve been through, our truce is a flimsy thing. 

When I don’t move Mr. Robot goes up to the door and rings the bell. I can only watch and wait as the lights inside flick on. Footsteps on the steps. Was he in bed? 

The door opens and Tyrell blinks at me like he expects me to disappear at any moment. He takes me by the arm and I think to pull away, but Mr. Robot puts a hand on my shoulder and though he doesn’t say it, I can hear it:  _ trust me _ , he says. I let Tyrell pull me inside. 

When the door is closed, he cups my face in his palms, staring at me with bright, wide eyes. It’s Mr. Robot’s hand on the back of my neck that keeps me from jerking away when he leans in and kisses me, full and deep. A small needy groan escapes the back of his throat and then I can’t think to push him aside. It would be cruel. 

He embraces me, his cheek pressed against mine, his lips to my ear. Mr. Robot keeps a hand on my shoulder and somehow it’s easier being held when he’s there. 

“Elliot…” Tyrell sighs. 

“What did I tell you?” Mr. Robot smirks at me. 

He’s still in love with me, with Mr. Robot. I realize this is the first time Tyrell and I have kissed. Mr. Robot lets me remember all the times he kissed him, fucked him, but I was never a participant. I wasn’t even allowed to remember until now. It feels familiar and strange all at once. I don’t know how much of this is me and how much of it is Mr. Robot bleeding through. 

“I’m you, kid,” he reminds me. “If I want him, there’s a part of you that does too.” 

“Is that why we’re here?” I ask him. 

Tyrell pulls back and Mr. Robot shakes his head. “You needed to feel safe.” 

I don’t know why Mr. Robot thinks Tyrell is remotely safe, but at the very least he’s not lying to me. 

“You’re talking to him,” says Tyrell. “Is something wrong?” 

At first I shake my head, but just as quickly I nod. “Yes.” There’s no point in lying to him now when I’ll have to tell him the truth soon anyways. 

“Come upstairs,” says Tyrell. “I’ll get you a drink.” 

I follow him up to his living room where he guides me to the couch with a hand on the small of my back and pours me two fingers of very expensive smelling whiskey. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I don’t like alcohol, so I school my face and drink it anyways, letting it burn my tongue, my throat, my belly. Once I finish, I set down my glass. He picks it up and puts a coaster under it before pouring a drink for himself. He sips it before sitting down beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his thigh. It makes me anxious, it makes my heart race, it makes me want to lean into it. 

“Tell me,” he says. No preamble, no bullshit. I like that about him; he doesn’t try and manipulate me like he does everyone else, not anymore. His voice is kind, but not reverent like he is when he talks to Mr. Robot. I’m impressed he is able to tell the difference so quickly. 

“My last girlfriend, my dealer,” I start, swallowing the dry lump in my throat. I didn’t expect it to be so hard after all this time, but then again, I haven't really talked about her much, have I? “She was killed because of me.” 

He must sense there is more to the story because Tyrell just nods, sipping his drink. His normally neat hair falls over his brow, strands sticky with styling product splayed across his forehead. 

“His name is Fernando Vera, small time, drugs and weapons. I got him sent to jail, so he got even.” I blink. My eyes sting, but they are hot and dry. “He broke out of prison and skipped town. I thought it was over.” 

“Where is he now?” Tyrell asks. 

“The apartment across from mine,” I say. Mr. Robot sits on the other side of me, closer than Tyrell. His leg is warm and solid against mine. Tyrell looks at me with narrowed eyes that scan my body, searching. 

“Did he hurt you?” 

I shake my head. “He hasn’t touched me.”

“But he will,” Tyrell surmises. 

“I don’t know.” I don’t know how to tell him I’m a coward, that I’m scared of Vera. 

“You could have called me,” he says. His hand hovers over my shoulder, but it drops into his lap instead as he heaves a heavy sigh. 

“I thought you might still be angry.” 

It’s his turn to shake his head. He looks down at his hands, clasped at his knees. “No… none of it mattered. We were both just pawns.” His jaw is tight as clenches his teeth, his hands balling into tight fists. “It turned us against each other and I hate that.” 

“I’m not… I’m not who you thought I was,” I mumble. Guilt, it burns in my gut and I’m too hot. The back of my neck prickles with sweat. 

“I know,” he replies, lifting his hand again from his lap. It hovers so close to my neck I can feel the heat from his palm. I’m scared to move, scared to pull away and scared to lean in, wanting to do both at the same time. 

“You’re more, so much more,” he says to me. I hear reverence in his voice, and this time I know it’s for me. “I want to touch you again.” I swallow. Mr. Robot snorts from the seat beside me. I can feel him itching to take control and I don’t know why he doesn’t.  

Tyrell’s hand doesn’t move, not until I start to lean into it, then he grasps the side of my neck and pulls me close so our cheeks are pressed together. His stubble scrapes against mine, rough and imperfect. His lips are on my skin. His tongue tastes the sweat beading at my hairline. His mouth moves as he breathes into my ear, “I don’t want to lose you again, either of you.” 

“We’re kind of a package deal,” says Mr. Robot, unable to stay quiet any longer. Tyrell looks at him, at me, and his lips curl up into a smile. He breathes out, slow, delighted. 

“I love you,” he says to both of us. 

I don’t know what to say to that, but Mr. Robot takes care of that for me by kissing him. It’s a shock when suddenly I’m the one kissing Tyrell and Mr. Robot is pressed up behind me with arms around my middle, his hands on my stomach, my chest, my shoulders. It’s too much, I can’t be touched this much. Yet Mr. Robot holds me in place, keeps me from pulling away. 

I look over my shoulder at Mr. Robot and he runs the back of his hand over my cheek. “It’s going to be okay,” he says. My heart feels like a stopwatch in my chest, fluttering rather than pounding. “Do you want me to take care of things?” 

He never asks me what I want, fuck knows why he’s starting now, but I nod. He kisses the corner of my mouth, his tongue sliding across my lower lip. He makes it hard to know what’s real and what isn’t. I can’t kiss myself and yet I feel it, feel his lips, feel the rasp of his stubble against my cheek. I can’t kiss my own lips, but I can pretend pretty damn well as it turns out; I moan into his mouth. 

Mr. Robot takes control. I watch him look up, I now sit where he was only moments before, my chest pressed to his back. He grins at Tyrell, tongue darting across his lips. “I need you to do something,” he says to him. Tyrell stares at him, waiting for instructions. I know he’ll do anything Mr. Robot asks of him. He might even do anything I asked. 

“It’s been a hard week for the kid,” says Mr. Robot. He pats Tyrell on the arm. “He needs to be taken care of, and I want you to follow my lead on this one.” 

Tyrell nods, his hands on my cheeks. “Anything,” he says, pressing his lips to mine. He kisses me and Mr. Robot unzips my hoodie, pulling it off my shoulders. His hands are between my legs and I would struggle, but I’m trapped between him and Tyrell with nowhere to run.

“It’s okay, kid,” he tells me, “I’m not him.”  _ Not my father _ , he means. God, if he could have picked any other face I wouldn’t feel sick to my stomach as I get hard. 

Tyrell pulls my shirt up over my head while Mr. Robot undoes the button on my jeans and eases the zipper down. With Tyrell’s help, both my jeans and my underwear are tugged down to my knees. Tyrell kisses my mouth, Mr. Robot kisses my neck. I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t even be here, but everything is hot and solid and Tyrell’s door has a stronger lock than mine. I let myself think for just a moment that perhaps I might be safe with these two men. Me, myself, and I— I laugh into Tyrell’s mouth. 

Mr. Robot pulls me backwards so I lay on top of him, his chest pressed flush to my back. His hands slide over my naked body, grasping, holding. Tyrell watches with dark eyes, his cheeks pink and his lips raw and wet. The lust in his eyes is for me and it’s strange to be an object of desire. 

“Spit,” says Mr. Robot, holding his hand in front of my mouth. I do as I’m told. He reaches between my legs to rub his dick and it’s pressing up against my asshole, pushing inside. He’s only a desperate fantasy, otherwise this would be excruciating. Tyrell stares. His gaze is hungry. He rubs the inside of my thighs with his hand, pushing my legs apart so he can watch. What he sees, I don’t know. I don’t want to know what I’m doing to myself. Whatever it is, he likes it; he leans over me to kiss me on the mouth, sucking my lip. 

My mouth flies open and Tyrell swallows the noises that escape my throat, his hands on my cheeks, my neck, my shoulders, my chest; lower and lower still, until they are back at my thighs and Tyrell keeps them spread. 

“Come on,” says Mr. Robot. Tyrell must hear him because he’s beaming, his eyes shining. Squeezing my thighs one last time, he stands and walks away. I choke down a moan as Mr. Robot thrusts up into me. 

Tyrell comes back with his pants undone, hand on his dick. He’s wearing a condom and the latex is wet and slick. He kneels between my legs and I know what he’s planning on doing. Mr. Robot clamps a hand over my mouth before I can object. My groan is more of a sob; I bite down on Mr. Robot’s fingers to keep from crying out while Tyrell lines up against my ass and starts to push inside. 

Once he’s in me, he stills his hips while I adjust. Mr. Robot has his fingers in my mouth, pressing down on my tongue. I’m hard again by the time Tyrell starts to move. It shouldn’t fit, this shouldn’t feel so good, shouldn’t feel good at all, but this is half fantasy and in my twisted delusions, being split in two is the height of eroticism. 

I choke on Mr. Robot’s fingers, panting as they thrust in tandem, both moving inside me. It’s so much, my skin is throbbing and overstimulated. Tyrell’s chest, damp with sweat, slides against mine and I’m so sensitive it’s almost painful. 

Tyrell sits back up on his knees and grabs my hips with his soft, elegant fingers. There is nothing soft about the way he fucks me, but it is not inelegant. He stares down at me with wide, bright eyes. His hands slide up and down my sides, over my chest. He is worshiping my body. He leans down to kiss my collarbone and my skin is so hot that it burns. 

“Fuck,” I curse, my voice strangled in my tight throat. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” says Mr. Robot just as Tyrell strokes my cheek and says, “I’m here, it’s alright.”

I’m pressed between them, their arms trapping me on the couch as they fuck me. It’s all too much and yet I wanted this, craved it. To be held, to be safe, to be screwed until my head turned to static and I could stop thinking, stop being scared. The locks on Tyrell’s door are stronger than mine. 

He’s talking. I hadn’t even noticed. I let my eyes focus on his mouth as they shape the words, “I love you, I love you, I love you…” 

He stills and I think he comes. Mr. Robot reaches around my hip to grab my dick and jerk me. I come on my stomach as Tyrell pulls out, no hand on my mouth to muffle the cry. 

Tyrell has a tissue box and wipes me clean before taking me by the hand and half dragging, half carrying me to his bed. I hate sleeping naked, yet I let him put me under the covers without complaint. He is beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, pressing our foreheads together and kissing me again.  _ He loves me _ . I wish I knew what to say to that, how to feel. 

Mr. Robot is at my back, his knees tucked in behind mine, his arm thrown over my waist. I am trapped between the two of them again and I should hate it, I should feel sticky and overstimulated, but instead, I feel tears prickle the corners of my eyes. I try and blink them away but still they fall down my cheek. Tyrell wipes them away with his thumbs, moving his hands to my cheeks. 

“You and I,” he says, “We were destined to meet. We were meant to be with one another.” 

I don’t even know if we want the same thing in the grander sense, let alone here and now, in his bed. Tyrell was willing to kill a building full of innocent people to achieve his goals. Tyrell already killed a woman and he said he liked it. Is this the man I want to trust with my body? Too late now, I suppose. 

“Don’t overthink it, kid,” says Mr. Robot, his voice muffled against the nape of my neck. His lips move on my skin. Tyrell kisses me over and over again, on my forehead, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. Sometimes I even have the energy to kiss him back.

I don’t sleep, but for the first time in a week I rest and it’s close enough. 

* * *

The sky is just starting to turn light when something heavy crashes through a window downstairs. Tyrell and I are both upright in an instant. Glass crunches under booted feet as someone climbs through the window. The alarm rings high and shrill, loud enough to wake the whole street.

“Fuck,” says Mr. Robot.

Tyrell leaps out of bed and I follow. He is wearing a pair of grey silk pajamas. The shirt is unbuttoned and flutters behind him as he glides over to the top of the stairs. I am still naked and my clothes, as far as I can recall, are on the floor beside the couch. I grab my jeans and tug them on as quietly as I can. 

Indistinct voices carry up the stairs; they are trying to whisper. There is a wine rack at the top of the stairs and Tyrell slides off a bottle, gripping it like a club. The footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs and Tyrell ducks down behind the railing, motioning for me to lay low. I wedge myself between the couch and the coffee table, finding my hoodie stuffed under it. 

It’s too dark to see who is coming up the steps, but as the first figure reaches the top, Tyrell lashes out with the bottle, smashing him upside the head. The man curses and there is a deafening explosion as he fires his gun. Mr. Robot vaults over the back of the couch and slams into the dazed man, shoving him down the stairs. The man behind him steps aside in time, letting his friend hit the bottom with a sickening crunch. 

Tyrell brandishes the broken wine bottle at the second intruder, but he levels a gun at us and steps into the moonlight. Fernando Vera grins too wide and too bright. Two other men soon follow him up the steps with their own weapons raised. The alarm shrieks and in the distance, there is the sound of police sirens, but I doubt they are for us, even rich people don’t get responses that fast anymore. 

“You and me, we have some unfinished business between us,” says Vera. I nod. “Let’s go before the cops get here,” he says to his companions. One of them grabs me by the arm, but the other one grabs Tyrell, pointing a gun at his head. 

“Wait, he wasn’t there, he doesn’t—“ 

“If I’d known you were a faggot, we wouldn’t have had so many problems, what with me being jealous and all,” says Vera, ignoring my protests. 

“What, you wanna fuck me too?” Mr. Robot spits. This earns us a sharp crack across the face with the back of Vera’s palm. I taste blood. 

“Don’t!” shouts Tyrell, his face twisted with fury. I shake my head at him--don’t get involved. He can’t protect me and I certainly can’t protect him. 

If I had anything in me to throw up, I might have done it. My gut churns wildly. We’re probably going to die. Vera takes us to his SUV at gunpoint and once inside, a cloth bag descends on my head. It’s black and smells like sour sweat. I wonder how many people have worn this before me... I wonder how many died in it. 

The car pulls away and I reach blindly along the seat, trying to find Tyrell. “Hands where I can see them,” says one of Vera’s men. I feel the cool metal of the gun on the back of my hand. Stupid. If I were a better fighter, I could have grabbed it, but as it stands, it would probably only get me killed. 

If Mr. Robot is here now, he’s gone quiet. I don’t know what Vera wants from me, but I hope Mr. Robot isn’t it. Vera will not be reasoned with. I learned that the hard way and lost Shayla. Odd to think of Tyrell as someone I can lose, but I can’t have him die because of me. Until I have a plan, I need to keep Vera happy or the man who loves me might pay the price for my failure. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrell's fate is in Elliot's hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this thing where I don't abandon works no matter how long it's been but I'd like to offer some sincere apologies for how long it's taken for this chapter. School and other obligations really rode my ass and then I was feeling a bit intimidated to come back. But here I am, here's the next part. Hopefully I'll finish this thing before the final season comes out. 
> 
> Thank you Shell_and_Bone for whipping this into shape for me in record time <3

I don’t know where they take Tyrell and I need to remedy that as soon as possible. I won’t have them using a dead man against me like they did with Shayla. If they’re going to hold him hostage, he’d better be an actual living, breathing, fucking hostage. 

As for me, I pass through four doors—I think—and it isn’t until the final one shuts that they take the bag off my head. I’m in an office. Stain resistant carpet, tall cubicle walls with fabric stretched over metal frames to form rooms. Windows with frosted glass stripes to give the illusion of privacy. And of course the door is dogshit brown. I’ve been in offices like this before, tried to work in some even. Miserable places owned by an older generation with no taste for open concept offices or Ikea furniture. Only slightly more depressing than Allsafe, to put it in perspective. 

Offices like this were some of the first to close their doors after the 5/9 hack. Smaller businesses who couldn’t afford the rent abandoned depressing temp offices like this in droves, leaving empty buildings all over the country. I don’t doubt that if I were to look outside there would be a For Lease or Sale sign outside. Of course no one is buying, so it’s the perfect place for squatters if they’re savvy enough to disable the alarms, or the perfect place for a mentally unstable druglord currently dodging a prison sentence. 

My only company in this shitty little cubicle is a rolling desk chair and one of Vera’s boys, and he’s gone just as soon as he arrived, leaving me alone with the chair. I sit down, not much else to do. I listen, and I wait. 

I don’t bother standing when Vera comes in. I don’t want him to see me tremble, though my whole body feels on the verge of shaking apart. 

“Where’s Tyrell?” I ask, wishing my voice were more commanding. I need Mr. Robot, now more than ever, and still, he hides from me. 

“Don’t worry about him,” says Vera. 

“I want to see him.” I have to know if he’s still alive. 

Vera smacks my cheek, gentle enough to be a warning, but sharp enough to sting. He takes my chin in his hand so I can’t look away from him. 

“You need to learn when to listen, my man.” His eyes are glazed, unfocused. He’s high. “You and I, we could make a hell of a team. Your brains, my vision.” 

“What do you want from me?” Whatever it is, I won’t do it. I’m tired of being other people’s pawns. Mr. Robot. Ray. White Rose. I’ve been Vera’s pawn before, too, played right into his hands, thought I could outsmart him, save Shayla. Stupid. I saw him as just another junkie. I underestimated him. I should have remembered that I’m no better, no matter how smart I like to pretend I’m playing it.

“You’re gonna erase my record, make it so I can work in the city again.” 

He’s either very stupid or he’s insane. I’m betting on the latter, since I know Vera is no fool. 

“That’s not possible,” I tell him point blank. “You can’t just erase someone’s record. There are paper trails, people who will know you, who will remember you.” 

“That’s easy enough to get rid of,” says Vera. 

I shake my head. I don’t know how to make him understand. Vera stands up and his hands are balled into fists. His smile is vacant. 

I need to get out of here. 

“You gotta understand, I’m not asking, Elliot.”

* * *

 

Arms around my shoulders. I wriggle out of them and sit upright. Home, I’m home. Tyrell groans behind me, rolling onto his back and covering his eyes with his arm, shielding them from the bright sunlight. 

I stand and close the curtains. He hums his appreciation and extends a hand to me. I take it and he pulls me back into bed. He kisses the corner of my mouth with dry lips. 

“Good morning,” he says. 

The early morning air is chilly, so I climb back under the covers. I’m wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, but I discover Tyrell is naked. He slides closer to me, our thighs tangling as he pushes a leg between mine to pull me tight against him. He kisses my throat and stubble scratches sensitive skin. 

Something itches in the back of my mind, but every time I try and focus on it, the thought jumps away, skipping like a scratched disk. 

A hand on my shoulder. Mr. Robot pushes me towards Tyrell. His body fits behind mine like it was made to do just that. His hand slides to my hip and squeezes. His breath is hot on the back of my neck. 

“You have to learn to let go, kid.” He kisses my shoulder through the cotton of my ratty T-shirt. 

“Let us take care of things,” says Tyrell. He looks right over me to smile softly at Mr. Robot. 

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” Mr. Robot promises me. He kisses my cheek as Tyrell presses his lips to mine, firm and insistent. His body slides up against mine and Mr. Robot is an immovable object against my back. I’m trapped between them, but the pressure feels good, grounding. 

I want to live in this fantasy forever. I look over my shoulder at Mr. Robot and his smile is sad. He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand, his knuckles dragging along my jaw. 

“Stay here,” he tells me. “You really don’t want to go out there right now.” 

Tyrell’s arm slides up my side, and in the reflection of his watch, I see Mr. Robot, bloodied and bruised, holding a hand to his broken nose. Blood seeps through his fingers. 

Mr. Robot grabs my chin and turns my head away, kissing me hard. I hold him closer and kiss him back--it’s the least I can do, it’s all I can do. I’m too much of a coward to do anything else. 

“I’ll protect you,” he promises me, pressing his lips to my forehead. He pushes hair from my brow and holds my face. I can’t look away from him. The light reflects off his eyes and I can see the pain and misery he suffers in my stead, the boot that catches him in the stomach as he curls in two on the floor. I see him cry out in agony and I am overwhelmed with gratitude and, yes, love, too. 

“I can’t let you do this alone,” I say, though it takes all my courage. He shakes his head. He kisses me again and again until I forget I’m supposed to be afraid. Tyrell’s arms are tight around my middle and his lips feel good on my shoulder, on the back of my neck. His hands feel good on my chest, on my sides, on my dick. He presses his palm down and Mr. Robot’s hand joins his. Together, they distract me until the guilt consumes pleasure and I sit up in that tiny, shitty office, Mr. Robot leaning on my shoulder. 

There is blood pouring from his nose. I mop it with my sleeve, but it does no good and it  _ hurts _ . There’s an awful keening noise, a high whine like a prelude to a sob. I don’t even realize it’s me until Mr. Robot puts his arms around me and says, “Hush, it’s alright.” 

I taste blood, hot and wet on my lips and on my chin. My sleeves are already soaked from trying to clean the mess. 

I lay down on my side, my head in Mr. Robot’s lap. He runs his fingers through my hair and he murmurs something soft, something kind. I can’t hear him over the throbbing of blood under my skin, pulsing and pushing at all the places I’m most tender. 

“It’s alright,” he tells me. “You can cry if you want to. It’s just you and me, kid.” 

I do cry, though it hurts like hell. Stabbing pain in my chest, aching pain in my jaw and my nose, sharp pain in my side, my body is on fire. His fingers ghost over the parts that hurt the most and it’s soothing rather than agonizing like real fingers would be. 

There are footsteps coming back down the hall. They get closer and closer, and with each step, my heart beats faster and louder. 

“Don’t go,” I beg him, casting my frantic gaze up at his sad smile. 

“Never,” he promises. “I’ll never leave you.” 

From the angle I’m laying, Vera’s whole body fills the door, looming tall and dark, backlit by fluorescent light. 

Mr. Robot’s fingers are in my hair, stroking my scalp. He’s tense; he wants to hurt Vera, but he can’t, not without hurting me. He will protect me, though knowing that doesn’t make me brave. 

Vera takes a seat in the rolling desk chair, crossing a leg over his knee. He swivels the seat from side to side with his other foot, staring down at me with dark eyes. 

“You’re probably feeling rough right now,” he says. “We worked you over pretty good.” 

My tongue is dry and my mouth is tacky, making it hard to speak. “What you want, it’s not possible,” I slur, trying to make him understand. 

“I don’t believe you,” says Vera. “You’re a liar, and you’re smart. You forget I’m smart, too. You can’t con a conman.” 

“It’s not about being smart, it’s about logistics,” I tell him, though he’s heard it all already. “You can’t just access these kinds of records over the internet, I would need to be on-site or at least have remote access to a computer on-site. It’s not just the NYPD, it’s the FBI as well. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to hack into FBI databases? And even if I do somehow find a way to delete all those records from all those databases, there are still paper documents. And there are still the hundreds of NYPD officers who know your name, your face, your record. Do you think they’ll just forget they managed to nail you after they’ve been trying for so long?” 

“They didn’t nail me,” says Vera, irritation flashing across his face. “You did.” 

He stands up, towering over me, pressing a boot against my chest and pushing down. I’m pretty sure my ribs are broken by the stabbing pain that ensues. If I didn’t know Vera was insane, I sure know now. “You did this to me and you’re going to get me out of it. I don’t care what it takes.” 

I cry out when he steps down and all the air rushes from my lungs. Every gasp for breath is pure agony. When the boot comes off, I gasp too hard and somehow it hurts worse than when he was stepping on me. It could be so much worse. I think of what Mr. Robot has already protected me from, what blows he has taken on my behalf, and I am overcome with gratitude. 

“I’m getting a computer set up for you,” Vera tells me. “Figure your shit out by then.” 

He leaves me, and in the gloomy, abandoned office covered in dust, I start to cry again. Mr. Robot wraps arms around my shoulders as tears roll down my cheeks and I bite the palm of my hand to keep from sobbing. I don’t want to die, not like this. I didn’t even ask him where Tyrell is. Stupid, selfish of me. How could I forget? It’s my fault he’s here. If he is here. If they didn’t just take him out back and shoot him, dump his body in the river. 

“It’s going to be alright,” Mr. Robot lies. 

“I have to know if he’s okay,” I tell him, though we both know the chances of Tyrell being safe are slim to none. 

“So here’s my thought, and you can take it or leave it,” Mr. Robot starts, perching on the edge of the desk; it’s unsettling how he doesn’t leave streaks on the dusty surface. It’s like he really is a ghost. 

“Go on.” I’m wary, but I have no options left. 

“We pretend, and we keep pretending until we get an opportunity to get the hell out of here.” 

“What about Tyrell?” I already know the answer. 

“He could be useful, but—“ 

“No,” I tell him. “We put him here. He could be useful. End of statement.” 

“That’s if we even get to talk to him,” Mr. Robot grumbles. I ignore him. Tyrell is only trapped here, that is if he is even still alive, because he loves me enough to forgive me for everything. I don’t know how I feel about him—he’s so changeable—I’m not sure I ever will, but I know that I can’t leave him to die. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know when I'll be able to write the next chapter but I have a goal to finish all my wips this year so fingers crossed lol.

**Author's Note:**

> Only God Can Judge Me. And you, since you read this too. @possiblydistasteful on tumblr if you want to come yell.


End file.
